


Baby Makes Three

by BellatrixDraven



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-04-16 16:18:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4631868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BellatrixDraven/pseuds/BellatrixDraven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the war, Hawkeye and Margaret ended up working together again, in Maine. After years of cold feet, joking, and learning to readjust to civilian life, they get married. It's not an easy life, with the flashbacks, the shell shock, everything. But they get by, with each other. And eventually, they aren't alone anymore, because baby makes three.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

For once summer was warm in Crabapple Cove. Well, it wasn't really summer yet, it was the end of May, but it felt like summer. That was good enough for Hawkeye. It wasn't unbearable like a Korean summer. It was mild, but warm, and the sky was huge and empty and blue. So, so blue. It hadn't been this blue in Korea, he thought.  
"Captain Pierce?" He was drawn from his thoughts at the voice. Familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. He turned to see who it was, maybe one of the local nurses that he never remembered. Alice or Vicky perhaps, some simple name that was always just out of reach. He wasn't expecting someone from the 4077th.  
"Margaret?"  
"I knew it was you." Margaret Houlihan set down her bags and stared at him. She hadn't changed very much. Her eyes were tired, though everyone's were. She still carried herself with purpose and demanded respect. But her face was softened, worn down from the war and readjusting to civilian life. Her hair was shorter too, just above her shoulders. He wondered why. He didn't know how to greet her, so he did what seemed right. His hand came up quickly, in a perfect, respecting salute.  
"It's been a while Major,"  
"I've been busy." With other hospitals, countries, soldiers. It didn't really matter.  
"Funnily enough, so have I." It was supposed to be a joke, but it sounded strained. They both knew what was happening, trying to keep the old facades up.  
"It's okay Benjamin." Margaret stepped forward and brought his arm down. "We aren't military anymore."  
"There's no leaving it behind us." His voice cracked. He felt thin, empty. About to blow away in the summer breeze.  
"No, but we can get past it." Margaret whispered, before dropping her guard and hugging him close. His body was still strong and sturdy, but it was softer. Easier to bruise and hurt. Hers was softer too, without the constant running and work she had in the camp. She was still stronger than him, and they stood for a long while, just holding each other. Time didn't feel real, and all that really existed to them, were each other.  
"Why'd you come back?" Hawkeye asked, stroking her hair.  
"I didn't have anywhere else to run to." Her voice was muffled in his jacket, but he understood. You could only run from the nightmares and memories for so long. Eventually you had to face them.  
"So why me? Why not Charles or Colonel Potter or BJ?" His voice was softer now, only asking to stall the inevitable.  
"Because only you knew how to handle me."  
"We'll have to handle each other."  
"I know."  
"Come on then, let's go home."  
"What?"  
"There's a spare room, dad won't mind. We're having greasy fries and beef for supper, hope it's okay with you."  
"Greasy fries sound amazing Captain." They pulled apart and stared for a moment, and then Hawkeye picked up her bags. It was time to move along.


	2. Chapter 2

They managed to adopt a pattern of life. Work at the local clinic. Wander the edge of town where people never talked, or occasionally down to the beach. Talking about the war when Margaret had hallucinations or Hawkeye woke up screaming. There's still secrets they keep from one another. Margaret can't do anything with the boys who come with broken arms, her face blanches and her hands shake. Hawkeye doesn't do well when the summer flu strikes, all the fevers remind him of the orphans who got sick and they couldn't cure. So they cover for each other, and make excuses to the other nurses and doctors. Sometimes there are harder questions to avoid. Hawkeye doesn't eat chicken, but he can't explain why without choking up.  
And somehow, the pattern holds. It holds for a long time, through the summer and into the next. Margaret stayed in the spare room at Hawkeye's, and while everyone talks about it, no one shuns them. Even in the emptiness of Crabapple Cove, no one judged the veterans. Besides, Hawkeye is one of their own, and the other town people are willing to accept Margaret as the least worrisome antic. Maybe it's a surprise that they lasted so long without having panic attacks at work, or that they didn't quit, and that they weren't falling apart so visibly. Until one day, the hammer falls, and It happens to Hawkeye. Every shard he's protected so carefully, glued into place so that he seems whole, is brought down with a single command. "Doctor Pierce, we need you in the operating room." It's been so long since he was needed there that Hawkeye couldn't move at first.  
"Sorry, what?"  
"Quickly, doctor!" Margaret came through. "Captain, immediately!" Somehow that moved him and it was just like Korea. Into the scrubs and gloves and Margaret was at his side, handing him clamps and gauze and wiping his forehead. He didn't look at the patient, he didn't want to know which kid had hurt themselves. After the surgery, which could've been hours or days, Hawkeye put in his notice. He couldn't work with kids being hurt anymore. It was amazing he had made it through the job as long as he had. Margaret stayed, she needed something to occupy her mind during the day. It's surprising how they manage to work like that. She never tells him about the clinic unless he asks. Even then it's kept to a minimum, that the vaccines were issued, and the fisherman came in with the hook through his thumb, and small things that don't remind him of Korea as much. He spends his days drinking from a even shittier still, and when he's not drinking, he's writing. He won't tell her what, but it's something that keeps the nightmares at bay.

Nightmares are the hardest part, he decided one day. So he finally took Dr Freedman's advice, and wrote. It was thick, dark, angry writing, more like a word vomit than a story. The nightmares that plague him at night spilled on the page, somewhere in the hazy world of mixed memories and terror. Hawkeye couldn't remember every patient if he tried, so he's not sure if there really was a child who spoke in Korean but liked Radar so much that he collected Grape Nehi bottle caps to sell. He doesn't remember if that kid wandered into the minefield and ended up with a belly full of shrapnel, only to die from tetanus. Hawkeye can't remember if there was a gingery headed girl, who had cut her hair and pretended to be a man, to save her brother from the draft. That the girl had medical training, and took her brother's name and went to Korea to protect people, only to be deafened forever by artillery, and then her leg amputated because of gangrene.  
They feel real, those nightmares. So Hawkeye wrote the words down, and sometimes, if he said enough, there weren't nightmares for a day or two. If he doesn't drink and writes two thousand words, he can go up to a week without a single nightmare. The only problem with that was his hands shook, and he broke things. He wasn't back from Korea, and he probably wouldn't be. His saving grace was Margaret, her ache was the same as his, and they could understand the pain without triggering the other.  
They both needed that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawkeye writes, Margaret reads, and they both pretend to believe they're fine
> 
> aka I'm sucky at summaries but I wanted this chapter posted

If the summer was any indication, winter was going to be absolute hell. Maybe that would be okay though, it could give them time to heal without injuries. No one came out in winter if they could help it, except the children who liked to snowball houses. The injuries in winter were far and few between, mostly it was mild cases of the flu or strep. Nothing that would be horrible.  
Hawkeye waits outside most of the time, for Margaret to come home. He still spends his days writing, and drinking if the words don't come. He has pages filled with dreams and nightmares and memories, thick ink from the typewriter and stains from where the liquor spills or where he throws it outside in a rage. Sometimes instead of the dreams though, he writes to Sidney. He never mails them, just seals them in thick envelopes and stores them in a box under the bed. Sometimes it helps more than writing the memories or drinking until he sleeps.  
One day he's out on the edge of the cove, throwing rocks as hard as he can into the water. It's cold and windy, and his hands are chapped red, and hurt. He's not as old as he feels, he feels as old as the water lapping at his boots. He throws the rocks farther, waiting for the splashes before throwing another one. Margaret could see him from the house. His hair was starting to become silvery, from the nightmares and stress. Her own hair was dark again, she no longer bleached it. That was the only visible contrast between them, and one of the few contrasts anyway. Sometimes she wonders if he notes the similarities that they don't mention, like how they still take five minute showers even though there's plenty of hot water. Or that neither of them can eat eggs without waiting for the sound of incoming wounded. They always are surprised when the boys who come to the door aren't asking for medical help or scrap tin, but want to hear stories of powdered eggs and gin, or are showing off the polished arrowheads they found. Margaret wonders how Hawkeye can handle those questions and even tell stories, when almost every night his skin is whiter than the old surgical masks, and his voice is raw from screaming.

She wonders at him, and how he's changed from the smiling, dark humored man in Korea. He doesn't drink as much as he did then, but when he does decide to drink, it's hours of hard stuff. No more gin though, he can't stand the taste. It's whiskey sometimes, or vodka. Sometimes he mixes whatever's together, to make the most vile concoction he can, to get drunk as fast as he can. She wonders at how he destructive he can be, but how strong he's managed to be. When he sleeps through his drunken hazes, she reads his writing. The letters remain sacred and unopened, but on nights when the silence was too loud, she would unfold the typewriter pages. She thought the first time that it would send her back to Korea.  
It didn't, instead it gave her a peaceful night's sleep for the first time since she came back.  
She watches him outside in the cold, throwing rocks and cursing the bitter air. He stands out there like a lighthouse, unable to move after his rocks are gone. He stays there for hours sometimes, just waiting for something to come along. Sometimes Margaret thinks he wants the wind to carry him away. Sometimes she thinks that maybe he wants to be carried out into the ocean. To scatter like the grass seeds, everywhere at once but never required to be in one place ever again. This time is no different, and so she lets him be, making a note to get him in an hour before he starts to screaming. He always screams at six.  
She picks a paper at random to read this time. This one is more emotional, she can tell right away. The ink runs, and there's splotches of liquor everywhere, and holes where he stabbed it with a fountain pen.

But it's got something important on it, and she intends to find out what hurt him so badly. Except it's not angry or a memory from the war, at least, not directly. It's a love letter.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaret reads a love letter, Hawkeye knows and things fall into place

"Dear Margaret," the letter starts. "I don't think I'll ever get this to you. I don't think we're the sort to send love letters."  
She looks up quickly, to see if he's coming. He's not, though he faces the house with squinty eyes. He raises a hand to her, waving a little, but mostly just letting her know that he's okay. She doesn't know how to respond, so does the same, in an awkward sort of wave. He turns away to face the horizon again, and she looks down to continue reading.  
"Dear Margaret,  
I don't think I'll ever get this to you. I don't think we're the sort to send love letters. You and Charles perhaps, and I might've to Kellye, but that's all behind us. As much as it can be, anyway. But we're alive and we made it.  
I love you. I know you know, since we had that kiss in Korea. How you showed up at my door, even when there were people anywhere else. Charles in Boston, BJ in San Francisco. Even good ol' Radar, in Ottumwa. You could've gone anywhere, but you chose here, and now we sleep twelve feet apart, separated by a wall and two curtains. I don't mind the distance. It's close enough to be friendly, without being close enough to chafe.  
I never believed in soul mates, though I'm sure that won't surprise you. But if I did, you'd be mine. Even if it were platonic forever, we just handle each other well. Especially since the nightmares started. I know you can take care of me when I hear the shelling, and I have you whenever the shrapnel comes close. We were going to be survivors, no matter what. I'm glad we could do it together.  
This isn't much of a love letter so far, but I think you still have enough fire, that should you find this by accident or I give it to you, you wouldn't want poetry spilled on the page. You'd slap me, and I'd deserve it. But forgive me, in this sentimental thought, Margaret.

I do love you. I love the way you handle things and you smile and you know what to do when I lock myself in my head. You know when to take the drink away from me. You know when I need to wander, and that's something not even my father understands yet. I love you for that. I love the way you smile over things, like the half dead flowers the girls at the clinic give you after you bandage their arms. I love how you smile at the smell of tea brewing.  
You're the calm to my storm. That's so cliche and I can feel my face stinging from the slap coming my way. But it's true.

I love you and your fire and calm and ability to just exist as a million things at once.  
So I guess what I'm saying Margaret, is simply just, marry me.  
All my love,  
Hawkeye"


	5. Chapter 5

Margaret puts the letter away, and turns away to find something else to do. It's not that the proposal is surprising, in fact people ask her at the clinic quite often. It's the idea that Hawkeye is too afraid to actually ask. In Korea he would've just asked during surgery, or when he was on trash duty. The question would've fallen from his lips like hailstones.  
"I assume you read it." Hawkeye's voice makes her jump.  
"Read what?" Her tone is harsh, and for a moment, it's just like the camp again. Slightly angry, flustered, awkward sidestepping of topics.  
"The letter. I'm not stupid Margaret, you'd find it eventually."  
"Okay, yes, I read it."  
"What's your answer?"  
"Give me a week." She says it so quickly that she's not sure what happens. Hawkeye's face falls a little, but it's not true disappointment.  
"Why?"  
"Last time I got married it went to hell."  
"I'm not Donald."  
"No, you're not." She agrees. "I just want to be sure."  
"Of what Margaret? We already know how to handle one another, we're already practically married, have been since you discovered I was claustrophobic." Hawkeye doesn't raise his voice, although it might've been better if he had. He just sounds tired and disappointed.  
"That's what I need to be sure about. I'm not divorcing again, I don't have it in me."  
"I'd never do that you."  
"Hawk-" she stops herself. "Benjamin, I promise in a week you'll have an answer. Until then..." she wants to say 'pretend I never read it' but that would be unfair to ask. "Until then, we continue as normal."   
"I'll do my best Margaret. Was it at least a good letter?"  
"The best I ever had."  
"Good." He sighs, and moves past her. She hears him lock his door and collapse on the bed. It'll be a long week.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is kinda angsty, I'm sorry. But it gets to happier times soon.  
> Thanks for sticking with this, I never imagined I'd get close to 200 hits on this. Comments or suggestions on where it should go are always welcome.

It doesn't take a week for Margaret to decide. The first day is spent with her head whirling from the proposal, and so she pulls a double shift at the clinic so she doesn't have time to think. She treats frostbite and cuts from ice skates, wrapping bandages and rubbing down surfaces. Whenever she closes her eyes she can see the words. The ink swims around her vision.  
-  
The second day is spent remembering time in Korea. All the times that she and Hawkeye had protected each other, healed each other, and began to fall in love. She wasn't sure when it began. Probably early, when Blake was still around and making poor decisions that Frank would challenge. She waited for her gut to twist angrily at the thought of Frank, but it didn't. It didn't twist, burn or flutter. It was just a name now, not the man she had wanted to marry. She decided that it was a good thing, and didn't think of him again. Hawkeye had really started to mean something during her marriage to Donald. There was a sting of rage when she thought of Donald. He had used her, betrayed her. She rips the paper she'd holding while she thinks of him, and her knuckles turn white and tingle.  
"Hope that wasn't the letter I wrote you," Hawkeye murmurs as he leans in the doorway. His eyes are dark and weary. His shirt is wearing through in the shoulder, thin and threadbare. She can see one of his scars through the hole, darker than the rest of his skin. One of the shells had cut him open, and he hadn't bled so much as oozed infection for weeks. The smell of the camp hits her with enough power to make her grab the wall. "Margaret?"  
"I'm fine. It wasn't the letter." If she gasps a little, he doesn't mention it.  
"Alright. I'm going out now. If I'm not back by six-"  
"I'll come get you." She promises, trying to smile. She reaches up to kiss his cheek, but he turns away. He leaves without another word, and she lets him. Her heart hurts from his rejection, but it's not brutal. She can handle it.   
At five, he comes back. His hands are chapped and red from the cold. Margaret wraps them in hot towels, trying not to think of the clinic or the war. It's quiet for a moment, and still, and she can hear the blood rushing through her ears. This is the time to say something, anything about the proposal, but before she can get the words out, something drops. It's loud, and metallic, and it clangs violently. She jerks away, her shoulders hunched and her hands clap over her ears immediately. It's enough to ruin any moment and push her to the brink of a panic attack, so she runs to her room and locks herself in. She curls on the bed, waiting for the banging in her head to stop. Hawkeye finds the key after two hours and comes to comfort her, petting her hair soothingly and holding her hand. He lifts her to a sitting position and then holds her close to his chest, just like in Korea. They don't kiss this time though.  
-  
Day four they avoid each other a little more. He walks with one of the boys from town, telling stories of the horrible food and Five O'Clock Charlie. Margaret rereads the letter and tries to decide. When it turns to the evening, she starts making supper. She starts on cutting tomatoes and finding vinegar, for something simple and with enough flavor to make Hawkeye eat more than two bites. She opens a beer for him as well, and searches for something for her to drink. There's another set of glass bottles in the pantry, thick with gray dust, and she grabs one to read the label. The cap comes off with a pop, and cuts her palm slightly. She fumbles for some soap to clean it off, before seeing the color of the label. It's surprising at first, and it takes her a moment to fully recognize what it is.  
Grape Nehi. The purple seems foreign now, and so out of place from the dull house. There's no way Hawkeye drinks this. It's too sweet for him. It's obviously meant to be for Radar, or about Radar. And just like that, she's thinking about the camp again. Radar delivering mail and how she would yell at him. Patching Radar up after an accident. Pushing Radar aside in favor of yelling at Blake or Potter. Crying after he left. She grabs the bottle, sloshing some over the side, and smells it. It smells like crushed grapes, and sugar, and somehow, it smells like optimism. So she tastes it.  
It's authentic grape flavor, that's for sure. And it's sticky and sweet. But it's good, and it leaves her mouth buzzing.   
"Tastes like Radar, doesn't it?" She chokes, and feels it burn as it almost comes out her nose. She turns to Hawkeye, one hand over her face and scowling. "Sorry. That sounded weird. I just meant it wasn't as bad as my liquor."  
"Hawkeye, learn to talk."  
"I am talking."  
"Talk before I start drinking so you don't scare the daylights out of me." She wipes her hand on her coat, leaving a thin sticky trail.  
"I'll try to remember." It should sound bitter, but it doesn't. In fact, he's trying not to smile. The big cheesy grin that she hasn't seen in so long. Her stomach feels warm and a rush of butterflies fly straight up to her heart, and before she knows it, she's pushed the bottle down again and is kissing Hawkeye. It's weird at first, but he softens and wraps his arms around her, bringing her closer.  
"Yes," she whispers when he pulls away.  
"What?"  
"You asked me to marry you. I said yes." She says it again, this time hesitating a little. It takes a moment for Hawkeye to process it, and then he kisses her again.  
"Thank god. I love you."  
"I know. I love you too." It takes a lot to say that, and she mutters it mostly, her face in his shoulder. But it's enough, as he smiles against her head and kisses her again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wedding is planned

There won't be a huge wedding, that's a given. Neither Hawkeye or Margaret could handle lots of people, so they settle for a few. The people that matter of course, which includes Hawkeye's father and their friends from the camp.  
"Should we ask Father Mulcahy to do the honors?" She asks one night, after working through the letters. There's no question that he'll be invited, but having him officiate would be so much better.  
"I don't see why we couldn't. He's the only one who put up with our antics when we were back in Korea." Hawkeye says, rolling his shoulders. His eyes are surprisingly alert, compared to his usual reaction whenever he mentions Korea.  
"Then I'll add that in his letter." Margaret smiles, twirling some hair around her finger. It's surprising how comfortable they are with these discussions, not cautious about the war, and nothing has seemed to change between friends and engagement. It's decidedly odd but nice.  
"Of course. Are we inviting Charles?" Hawkeye asks, though he doesn't sound rude or against the idea.  
"I don't see why not, he was good in the end."  
"You didn't have to share a tent with him."  
"He does have good music taste though, picking a song for us to dance to would be something he'd master well."  
"Oh, and have him have that to add to his ego?" Hawkeye's trying to keep a straight face while he says it. "I hardly think that's wise." He cracks and starts laughing before he can finish the sentence.  
"Is that a yes?" She's laughing too, and her stomach hurts after a few minutes of airless giggling.  
"God, yes, put him down, tell him he has to pick the perfect song for us to dance to."

Hawkeye can't stop laughing, and his cheeks are red. He reaches forward for a bottle of cider, and after a long swallow, he settles back. His face is rosy and he looks genuinely happy for the first time in months. His smile falters for a moment as something crosses his mind, and he twists the bottle as he thinks.  
"What is it Hawkeye?" Margaret asks her voice softer.  
"Since your father's passed, who's going to give you away?" He asks, and then his words flow faster before Margaret can think. "What about Potter? He'd be more than glad to do it probably."  
"I think so. But your father could do it too."  
"Yeah, but he might not. He's kinda weird."

"I like the idea of Potter doing it again. I'll ask him, if not, I'll walk alone." It's decided and they sit in silence for a while, as they write separate letters and seal them in thick envelopes. Hawkeye's handwriting is very loose, and it takes Margaret a moment to read his words, but it flows. It's a good representation of Hawkeye, loose and still spilling over his boundaries. Her handwriting looks much more prim, still in a format that would make her father proud. She thinks about the wedding again, this time from her father's perspective and she waits for something to change her mind. That maybe, deep down, she doesn't want to be married and that she and Hawkeye will live platonically. Nothing stirs.  
"Are you okay? You're just staring into space." Hawkeye swipes his hand in front of her face, breaking her thoughts. "You looked shell shocked, is everything okay?"  
"I'm not wearing white. And we won't do anything stupid." She blurts it out, hands shaking.  
"Define stupid."  
"Bouquet tossing, and long speeches, and anything traditional."  
"I thought you liked traditional." Hawkeye doesn't argue, but his face is certainly confused.  
"My father did. I don't know what I like anymore."  
"Okay, not white. What's your favorite color? Mine's red. Are you a blue sort?" Hawkeye just goes with it, not trying to pry or figure anything out, though it's clear he's still lost.  
"No." She thinks for a moment. "No, I like yellow. Like sunflowers and buttercups and butterflies."  
"Do you want to wear yellow? I'm sure we could find something suitable."  
"I'd look terrible in yellow, especially if you're wearing black or red."  
"What if we didn't dress up, we could be dressed casually and no need for anything formal. You know everyone from camp wouldn't mind. BJ looked terrible in formal dress. I don't even want to think of what Charles had." Hawkeye tries to make it lighthearted, he always does. "We aren't really formal anyway, we'll be doing everything ourselves and probably a bit sloppy."  
Margaret smiles at that, and it doesn't sound bad when she starts to laugh. Her father would be insulted at anything less than perfect for her wedding, but times have changed. She leans over to take Hawkeye's cider, taking a long drink. When she sets it down, he takes both her hands, sincere as he stares. His eyes are serious, even as there's a distant shine.  
"You don't have to marry me-" He starts.  
"Of course I'm marrying you. I couldn't marry anyone else. You're my best friend at this point, and I love you." It sounds a bit jumbled, as they spill out so quickly. It may be the first time she's said "I love you" in such an emotional way, and then she's reaching up to hold his face tenderly and kissing him. It's warm, and soft, and she can smell his aftershave. His hands slide over her lap, pulling her closer, and the letters are falling all over the floor in a mess. Margaret breaks away, laughing at the mess and beginning to pick it up.  
"I love you too." Hawkeye says. She looks up for a moment, still smiling.  
"I know. Let's get married soon, what about on Saturday? Nothing fancy, and we can invite everyone to something formal in the summer. Not a wedding, but something else."  
"Anniversary of the war ending." Hawkeye says.  
"That sounds fair. All of them. Do you mind the wedding being so soon?"  
"Not at all. We'll get something yellow for you." Hawkeye smiles.  
"There's something I think would fit." They both look up to see Hawkeye's father in the doorway. "From your mother. It's a dress, patterned with blue flowers in the skirt. I'll go find it, if you're interested."  
"I'd like that very much, sir." Margaret still isn't sure how to address him. Hawkeye's father smiles and nods.  
"You can have her ring too, if you like."  
"Oh sir, I couldn't." She's honored of course, but that would be intrusive.  
"Let me see if I can find it first." And he leaves before she can protest again.  
"He likes you at least."  
"If I'm wearing yellow and flowers, what will you wear?" She turns to Hawkeye.  
"I hope you don't mind a simple pressed shirt and my plaid jacket."  
"That'll do just fine."  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took liberties with this chapter, with Margaret's details. If this isn't canon compliant, let me know and I'll edit it.

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to do this justice, but there are no guarantees on anything canon compliant. This is also the first time I've really written anything with Margaret, so this is a new experience for us all.


End file.
